


of course it's you

by tidyattire



Category: Blur (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Alex James - Freeform, Damon Albarn - Freeform, Fluff, Gorillaz - Freeform, Graham Coxon/reader - Freeform, Mutual Pining, blur - Freeform, damon albarn/reader - Freeform, damon being too proud to tell you he likes you, graham being a sweet boy, graham coxon - Freeform, slander of the cheese man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:26:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28722102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tidyattire/pseuds/tidyattire
Summary: damon and you go for a smoke, he think's you fancy graham, but it's not graham you fancy.
Kudos: 3





	of course it's you

**Author's Note:**

> hi! i've posted this on my tumblr of the same name but i've always preferred ao3 as a creative platform :-) hope at least a couple of damon simps get enjoyment out of this.

Damon was a different beast altogether when he was tipsy.

If you were brutally honest with yourself, the boy intimidated you enough when he was sober, never mind when he was cockier than ever due to a certainly unnecessary boost of liquid confidence. It’d been years and you still hadn’t managed to get yourself used to his presence; you’d tried and tried and tried. You knew that Damon saw you as a good friend, a best friend, so you tried to swallow down the nerves you felt whenever he glanced your way, tried to ignore the little goosebumps that raised from your skin whenever his voice said your name like it was the prettiest thing he’d ever heard. This already lovingly-tactile-yet-sober Damon was far too much for your fragile heart most days - how your insides would scramble for purchase when he patted you on the shoulder or his pretty fingers grazed yours as he handed you a warm cup of tea, yet here you were; the blue-eyed one had his arms draped over your form like he was made of the finest silk.

Damon didn’t typically exist in your vicinity when you and the boys attended gatherings together; he was indeed a social butterfly, and aimed to do exactly what social butterflies loved and probably pollinated just as much as a real butterfly would too. You wondered why he seemed so desperate to avoid the two of you as most of the nights you’d drink with Graham, finding ways to entertain yourselves by placing petty bets on the far less-than-holy antics of Damon and admittedly more often, Alex. There was a certain morbid curiosity that sometimes resulted in you sitting and actively observing Damon work his sloppy, romantic magic; you’d watch in a cautious manner, through the metaphorical gaps in your fingers, stomach churning but you just couldn’t help but look. Graham would often crack pity-laced jokes about how you were burning a hole into the side of Damon’s head and then proceed to tug you away, hand in his, from your defeatist self-indulgence to instead drown your sorrows. There wasn’t a hope in hell that Graham hadn’t caught onto your helpless doting but he made no notable fuss, much to your relief; after all, a girl having a crush on Damon was hardly a rare occurrence. 

You weren’t quite sure how Damon had manage to wind up here. One moment you were sitting at a packed breakfast bar next to Graham, a messy game of ring of fire resulting in the table being scattered with playing cards and Graham having to drink some unholy concoction of everyone’s drinks. The next, there were a pair of arms laced carefully around your shoulders; it would be wrong to say his voice alerted you to who he was, you had known already. The shape of those pretty fingers, the periwinkle blue of the upturned sleeves of his button-up, the scent of cigarettes and cedar-wood, all coupled with the familiar nervous churn of your stomach that acted like your own personal alarm system. Damon, Damon, Damon. He was laughing now, sloppily gesturing his right hand at a friend that sat on the other side of the table, and much to your detriment, the other had started to kneed at the newly-formed tension in your left shoulder; fingers pressing into skin, his chest only separated from your back by your bar stool. Graham looked at you as if he were watching you brutally murdered in front of him, the life draining from your body with every single gentle circle Damon pressed against your stiff skin. Damon noted your intent staring at Graham and laughed darkly in his own head. If it weren’t for the sedatory nature of his actions you’d be screaming now, just screaming and screaming and screaming, but your body had seemingly betrayed you. You were melting underneath his touch; revelling in feeling everything you’d ever drank away, everything you’d ever discarded, everything you’d locked in a box in the deepest corner of your love-struck mind. And you were drowning in him, in that typical hedonistic way you usually enjoyed Damon, as if he were hard liquor in a state of prohibition. As if he were debauchery to the devout.

“This is nice,” Damon’s fingers were now toying with your necklace, face peering down on you, eyes focused on the beads he was rolling between his digits before his eyes moved to meet yours. This tactility wasn’t exactly rare for Damon to engage in when he was a couple of chap lagers down and actually around you for once; you’d remember how he’d pull you for a dance every so often, how he’d place his hand under your chin as he tipped alcohol down your throat, how his hands tightened around your waist when he said goodbye for the night. A soft smile was all you could muster now before Damon spoke again, “you got a pack, gra? I’m all out.” Graham awkwardly retrieved a half-emptied pack of Marlboro Gold’s from the pocket of his cords and handed them to Damon alongside a scrappy red lighter that Damon grasped carefully, the pack falling between his middle and ring finger, and the lighter between his middle and pointer.

“You owe me!” Graham joked gleefully, cutest little smile on his face as he gazed up at Damon, to which Damon chuckled.

“I always do,” Damon sang in reply, tilting his head to side with all of the endearing nature of a small puppy, “you coming?” There wasn’t really much of a choice for you. You think you nodded, maybe that was just true animal impulse. Your body reacting before you even had time to think, before you could engage in some form of cautious damage control and ensure you wouldn’t embarrass yourself as you inevitably would. Deep down, you wanted this. If you were brutally honest you’d endure the most wicked embarrassment in order to spend a moment alone with the boy; whether this be playing your hand at being a social flagellant or just indulging yourself in his attention. Your hand in Damon’s felt beautifully small, tugging you through messy crowds until he found an opening to outside. The air was cool and the night was clear, you kept your eyes on Damon’s back until he sank down to sit on the curb. You stayed standing until Damon patted the concrete next to him in invitation, cigarette hanging loosely between his lips. His hands worked to light his cig, taking a long and deep drag as you settled next to him, dropping his head back to blow the smoke into the crisp air. Here, looking up at him, you realised how frighteningly pretty you found him, more so than ever before; features so gentle yet so striking, the perfect harmony of feminine and masculine, lit dimly by streetlight. You hadn’t really considered the idea of God before you’d encountered Damon, but now you realised it may seem a little naive to believe such beauty could just exist as a simple anomaly. His feet swayed from side to side in the road lazily, your knees were tugged to your chest, tips of your shoes just brimming over the roadside - partially for warmth, partially for protection. 

“Do you think you’ll ever tell Coxon?” Damon squinted at you as he turned to offer you his cigarette, his voice was low. If it weren’t for the wholly surprising nature of Damon’s question, you’d be wondering why Damon hadn’t just offered you another cigarette, why he was so desperate to share with you. If only Damon knew the extent of what you’d told Graham in the deep, emotional pits of inebriation; ‘I feel like I can’t breathe when he looks at me’ and a colourful menagerie of slurred statements that were somehow even more pathetic. Damon didn’t know that your sudden attachment to Graham out of a need for absolution, need for release. A little smile of confusion spread across your face, accepting his offering, letting the cig burn slowly in your fingers as you spoke.

“Tell Coxon what?” Your tone was tentative, confused, longing. This produced a light yet bitter laugh from Damon as you took a drag, handing it back to him, feeling that usual electricity of the warmth from his fingers that only seemed to be amplified by the cold around you.

“That you like him.” Damon replied, so matter-of-fact, so sure of himself in that very typical, semi-arrogant fashion. You couldn’t help but crack up, arms coming to wrap over your waist as chuckles rippled through your body. Before you knew it, you were lying back on the concrete and Damon was just watching you laugh louder than he’d ever heard you laugh; it was beautiful and he couldn’t quite help the smile that stretched across his face when he was watching you.

“What? I don’t think it’s- it’s not that funny!” He spoke, gesturing wildly, shaking his head fervently, “you’re always looking at him, you’re always drinking together, that’s why I don’t sit with-“ Damon wanted so desperately to tell you his continuous absence was born out of misplaced jealousy. How he felt like he couldn’t breathe when he saw you crumpled against Graham’s side after a long night of drinking. His pride just wouldn’t let him, not yet. 

“Damon. I do love Graham. Just- just not in that way.” You cut off his rambling, speaking breathlessly through fading giggles, “it’s not him I like.” You regretted your wording there, they seemed to slip out before you could catch them.

“God no- you don’t-” Damon’s face dropped, disappointment and concern painted across his features. You were panicking now. Plaguing thoughts of he didn’t like it, he didn’t want that, he didn’t want you, “you like Alex? Really? That dickhead?” A slight relief, also a pang of worry for how naive Damon seemed to be in your affections towards him. If you were thinking straight, you’d note how protective he was of your standards.

“No no no no- Not Alex.” You were laughing again as you raised to sit again, eyes averted to your lap, fingers now fiddling with themselves.

“Dave?!” Damon’s voice raised, oh so surprised. You shook your head without word. There was a moment of poignant silence; Damon didn’t speak as he rose to his feet, he was pacing around the road in a somewhat erratic manner, trainers scuffing the street as he went. You couldn’t raise your head to look at him as you began to formulate some form of dramatic apology in your head; some lengthy spiel about how you were best friends and you could work through this and it would all pass. It’d pass.  
“Damon- listen- it’s not a big deal-“

“You like me too?” You couldn’t help but look at him now, not with that choice of word daring you to think of a possibility you’d not even entertained the thought of. Damon was never one to mince his words, to not say things that didn’t mean anything. He’d chosen the word ‘too’, and he’d meant everything it had inferred. Damon had halted his treading and was facing you, grin plastered on his face that was wider than one you’d ever seen before, “fuck! I was so certain you liked Graham and it just got worse with Alex but- you like me?” He was louder now, rambling to himself in the middle of the dark street before he turned his gaze to you again, like he couldn’t help but to look at you now. Not when he knew what he knew. What he’d wanted to know for months. You felt like you were going to throw up, there was such boyish excitement laced in his words. He could hardly contain his energy, bouncing once on the spot, shaking out his hands. There was a vulnerability to Damon here that you’d failed to appreciate before.

“Of- Of course it’s you, Dames.” Those words fell out of your mouth in a defensive manner, breathless, words painted by your smile.

“Come here-“ He stated, finger pointing to the spot in the street, right in front of him.

“What?”

“I said, come here- Come here.” He gestured to the concrete again and you found yourself obedient. One foot padding in front of the other, eyes locked with Damon’s and he ran a somewhat shaky hand through his hair. Damon’s hands steadied themselves on either side of your face, eyes burning into your own with such desperate softness as his thumb stroked against your cheek. You felt yourself leaning into his touch, eyes closing momentarily in bliss before Damon’s lips attached themselves to yours. So tender, one hand now falling to steady your waist as you tangled your arms around his neck. He pulled away, “can you say it?” He hummed breathlessly, a little smirk playing on his lips, pouting when you rolled your eyes at his request and leaned in again without word. He pulled back, denying you, “can’t you say it? just for me, love?”

“I like you, Damon,”  
“Good. Now kiss me again.”


End file.
